


There's No Way This Is Really About The Pie

by FrancesHouseman



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Hand Feeding, M/M, Pie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 22:12:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancesHouseman/pseuds/FrancesHouseman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luckily for Dean there's a good witch on hand to provide a healing salve when he touches a cursed statue on a hunt. He can't use his hands while they heal but it's only going to take three hours... So go back to the motel, watch TV, get Sam to help him eat. How hard can it be? Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's No Way This Is Really About The Pie

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [[翻译]这不可能仅仅是关于派](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1651064) by [fayescar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fayescar/pseuds/fayescar)



 

 

This is torment for Sam. There’s no way he can watch Dean eat without getting turned on. Dean eats like a hedonist in a Babylonian brothel. He just gets stuck in, really goes for it. Sometimes there’s even groaning if it’s particularly good pie. He eats head-on; a man on a mission to fill his stomach. It’s a show of honest pleasure and fulfillment and Dean’s mouth drives Sam crazy.

 

Sam has made _not_ looking at Dean eating into the habit of a lifetime, allowing himself the occasional peek only when he’s safe from Dean’s notice. Sam can’t look away now because he is the one feeding Dean. It’s just a burger and fries because they grabbed a drive-thru but that means there are no spoons or forks involved. It’s just Sam’s fingers pushing things into Dean’s mouth, and the mere thought of it makes the pleasure centers in Sam’s brain fill with warm honey.

 

If Dean hadn’t touched the cursed statue… but wishes ain’t horses and they’re stuck with Dean’s mummified hands until the witch’s healing lotion has done its thing.

 

Dean’s emotions tend to shine out of his face, playful, somber, proud and so forth. Sam is hardwired to react, his inner oceans dancing and storming in response. He has learned to be careful not to linger on Dean’s mouth because that way lies danger, like a sinkhole to desire. A crooked smirk or a new word forming on those lips can ruin Sam for hours. On one memorable occasion a salty tear ran from top lip to bottom and Sam had very nearly lost control. _Lips to sink a thousand ships_ , Sam thinks, not for the first time.

 

Sam has scars from that mouth ( _Freak, Monster… Don’t go_ ) and treasures, locked down and coveted ( _Proud of you Sammy… Just the two of us, just the way I like it_ ).

 

One fry at a time is too slow for both of them, so Sam feeds them to Dean in threes. Dean deftly snatches a mouthful and pulls them in with his lips and teeth. Halfway through chewing he grimaces at Sam and says, “Coke,” with the narrowed eyes of someone who has a load of stodgy food stuck in his gullet.

 

Dean sucks up the coke slowly, hollowing his cheeks and playing with the straw inside his mouth between sucks.  He grins at Sam, straw between his teeth and then does the most almighty belch, smell of masticated potato and grease washing over Sam. “Dude! Gross!” Sam flicks him with the coke straw but Dean is unabashed.

 

“Cheeseburger?” asks Dean hopefully, and Sam thinks of cats. Cats smirking like Dean is smirking. Cats getting cream. Dean licking up cream like a cat… Sam keeps his _I’m-humoring-you_ mask in place with an effort; doesn’t let his gaze linger too long on Dean’s face or Dean’s mouth. He swivels to retrieve the burger from the takeaway paper bag, moving only his upper body so that the creases in his jeans stay just the way they are, hiding his excitement from Dean. Sam is an expert at this kind of thing.

 

But Christ, the burger is worse. He has to hold it with both hands to stop the garnish from escaping. The first bite nearly undoes Sam because he is completely unprepared for the eroticism of pushing meat into Dean’s mouth. His hands shake visibly and he dumps the burger unceremoniously onto the paper bag, garnish and sauce slopping out, giving the game away. Well hell. Lesser men would have crumbed years ago. Lesser men would never have survived the purple nurples.

 

“Sammy?” Dean chews, swallows and tries again. He’s more worried than suspicious but there’s a calculating look settling across his features as he takes a careful assessment of Sam. “Is it...?”

 

Oh no. Oh hell no.

 

“Sam? Dude? Do you have some kind of weird…” but that’s as far as Dean gets because Sam has forced the burger back in. No. Sam doesn’t have some weird food thing. Sam has some weird _Dean_ thing. Dean’s trying to talk with his eyes as Sam stuffs him, mouthful after mouthful, but Sam’s not looking anywhere but the shrinking burger and Dean’s not going to spit or waste food.

 

Food is just food in any other context. The problem is that Dean really enjoys eating and Sam really enjoys watching Dean enjoy himself. So sue him. Clothes stop being ‘just clothes’ when they’re on Dean. Guns stop being ‘just guns’ when Dean is cleaning them. And that line of thought, with Dean’s rough hands caressing a gun barrel, really isn’t going to help this situation any.

 

Sam makes Dean take the rest of the burger, two or three standard mouthfuls in one, pushing it in with his forefinger. Dean croaks in indignation, cheeks puffed out hamster-style when he manages to close his mouth over it. Sam knows it’s mostly for show. He has seen Dean scarf down half burgers in one go when he’s feeling particularly peckish. He waits for the chewing to be over, head in hands.

 

Dean says, “Um,” and there’s an awkward silence. “Any chance of pie?”

 

Oh my God. “Just… can we have a break Dean? I just… You need to eat more slowly.”

 

“Riiight. Because I’d’ve been eating that fast if I’d been stuffing my own mouth.”

 

 _Stuffing my own mouth_ , in this context, probably doesn’t count as dirty talk. It makes Sam hot all over anyway. He needs Dean to shut up. Or a cold shower, if only getting up and walking was a possibility right now.

 

“C’mon Sam, stop being a weirdo. At least give me some coke to wash it down.”

 

Sam holds out the coke, head still bowed, not watching. Just the vibrations in his hand as Dean slurps the dregs from around the ice are enough to make Sam’s cock throb. Clearly there’s something seriously wrong with him.

 

“TV?” Dean smiles at Sam’s obvious gratitude for the escape but one eyebrow jumps too, and Sam thinks he’s probably only getting out of this for the immediate future. He finds the remote, angling his body away from Dean as much as possible and heads for the bathroom.

 

A terrible thought strikes him in the doorway. “Dean?”

 

“Mmm?”

 

“Tell me you don’t need the bathroom.”

Dean smirks, “Bladder of steel Sammy, bladder of steel.”

 

Well, thank God for small mercies. It’s only three hours before they can unwrap Dean’s hands and then… well, Dean can do whatever he likes then.

 

****

 

Sam washes the day away in the shower, using a whole bottle of hotel shampoo for his body and his hair. He doesn’t even try to push thoughts of feeding Dean from his mind. It’s that first bite of burger that haunts him and he imagines feeding his cock to Dean, because who’s he kidding? It’s not burger meat that Sam wants to push into that most sinful of mouths. He imagines Dean taking it greedily, less biting and chewing but the same look of satisfaction that Sam had glimpsed before dropping the burger. He imagines fucking sideways into Dean’s mouth and making his cheeks bulge obscenely.

 

No sooner has Sam closed a blissfully firm hand around his cock than there’s a crash from the room.  “Dean?” There’s no reply so Sam leaps from the shower and snatches a towel for his waist, cursing his hyperactive child-man of a brother for failing to sit still for twenty minutes, much less three hours.

 

Dean is sitting on the end of his bed glaring at the pile of coffee mugs, kettle and spoons on the floor, bandaged hands crossed on his lap and a scowl on his face. Sam frowns, “Were you trying to make coffee?”

 

“I want my pie Sam. Why’d you have to go and get all weird before the pie?” Dean is surly and Sam feels put-upon. Seriously, sometimes Dean has the patience of an attention deficient gnat. He looks from the white cake-box on the table to Dean’s mummified hands, to Dean’s pout and rolls his eyes. He doesn’t try to hide his sigh as he picks up the kettle and takes it to the bathroom to fill it and turn off the shower. He dries off while the kettle’s boiling and puts his clothes back on. There’s plenty of time to get himself under control because motel kettles take forever. He can’t give himself a pep-talk in the bathroom mirror but he does give himself a series of pep-looks, knowing in his heart of hearts that it’s an exercise in futility.

 

Dean is back up on his bed against the headboard where he had been earlier for the burger, fries and coke debacle. All traces of grumpiness have vanished in favor of smugness at getting his own way, and not a little hunger. Sam mentally braces himself, adds a squirt of fake cream, and brings Dean the pie.

 

Dean wants pie. Sam can give him what he wants. Desire and fulfillment, simple and sweet.

 

Sam wants Dean. Dean could give him what he needs. Incest and recklessness, corrupt and depraved.

 

Sam shivers as the first sticky spoonful of pecan pie disappears into Dean’s mouth and they are connected by the tiny teaspoon, Dean’s mouth to Sam’s hand. Sam thinks of metal conducting heat energy and sexual tension. He looks at the stem of the spoon and thinks of the lines that denote covalent bonding between carbon atoms. He drags the spoon up and out of Dean’s mouth, moist toffee trails lingering on the spoon’s hollow. Sam can smell the pie. His mouth waters.

 

Three mouthfuls in and Dean’s eyes haven’t left Sam’s face. He’s clearly enjoying the pie, grateful for the little scoop of cream that Sam adds to every spoonful so that it’s not too thick. He hums in appreciation and studies Sam’s reaction, apparently liking what he sees and, in typical Dean-fashion, playing devil’s advocate. He licks his lips. It’s killing Sam.

 

The smallness of the teaspoon is both a travesty and a gift from the gods, the ones that want to torture Sam with sex. It’s taking ages to get the pie into Dean, and Dean knows it too. “Faster Sammy,” he purrs. _Sammy._ The word would be written like a smile, curved like a cradle. Dean’s name for him, holding him. It’s way too easy to imagine Dean saying, _Harder Sammy, Deeper Sammy,_ in the same tone of voice.

 

This is, hands down, the most erotic thing Sam has ever done, because Dean knows and Dean is putting on a show for him. There’s so much heat passing between them that the spoon should be a molten puddle burning a hole through the bed. Sam feels every movement of Dean’s tongue against the metal so that it might as well be part of himself in there. There’s no way this is really about the pie and Sam sees that Dean knows it too. It’s in Dean’s hooded eyes, his shallow breaths and the intense scrutiny Sam is under. It’s like admitting his own arousal in a mirror.

 

And suddenly, much too soon, it’s the last mouthful of pie and Sam could cry. Perhaps it shows in his face because there’s a fleeting look of sympathy in Dean’s expression before he bites down on the spoon grinning. Sam laughs because it’s so unexpected. That’s not all though because Dean is wriggling down the bed so that he’s lying, head on the pillow, pulling Sam down with him because Sam is welded to the spoon with the heat of Dean’s mouth, and caught up in Dean’s eyes until Dean sees fit to look away.

 

It’s a smooth move for a guy who has temporarily lost the use of both hands. Dean gets one arm up and over Sam’s, clamping Sam’s forearm to his chest and rolling them sideways so that they’re chest to back and Dean’s the little spoon. Sam huffs in surprise and scoots his hips back a little in panic because his cock could cut granite right now and Dean might not want it up against his ass. Then again Dean might, but better safe than sorry. Fuck the coffee. This evening Dean apparently wants to be spoon fed and spooned by Sam, and Sam has died and gone to heaven.

 

****

 

They lie there for what feels like ages, the TV putting on a light show on mute. Dean keeps Sam’s arm beneath his, bandages resting against Sam’s hand. He doesn’t move at all, doesn’t even twitch, and his breathing has evened out so that Sam starts to wonder whether he has fallen asleep.

 

He knows he shouldn’t, knows he’s tempting fate, looking a gift horse in the mouth and all the rest of it, but he can’t help himself. Sam uses his fingers to slowly gather the material of Dean’s shirts into his hand, leaving the soft middle parts of Dean exposed. Gently, Sam extracts his hand from beneath Dean’s and lets it settle over where Dean’s stomach sits, over all the food stuffed inside. Stuffed inside by Sam, with Sam’s fingers and Sam’s spoon, now forgotten on the carpet.

 

Sam lets his hand creep lower, imagining dean's guts steamy-hot inside, imagines holding them in. Dean's muscles are tense and Sam smiles because it means that Dean is awake, too embarrassed to just relax his belly. Dean is awake and letting Sam do this.

 

Sam rubs his fingers up and down. "So greedy," he teases softly, hearing the smile in his own voice.

 

"Sam..." Dean says, low. It sounds like a warning but that's just the way Dean has to sound. Sam hears the shaky question that it really is. He puts his forefinger against Dean's lips, the tip brushing his nose. Hush. He pushes for emphasis, feeling teeth and the cool rush of air at his knuckle as Dean sucks in a hitched breath.

 

He gets his other hand under Dean and around onto his belly, palm splayed. “Relax?” he asks. He outlines those plush lips with his fingertip and carefully pushes into Dean’s mouth. Dean hesitates for a moment before letting go with his abdominal muscles and accepting Sam’s finger, sucking it in as though it’s pecan-toffee coated. They both moan. Dean’s belly falls slightly into Sam’s hand. There’s enough to embarrass Dean, enough to betray his love of beer, pie and junk food, but not enough to really count. Dean’s body could still be described as that of a soldier, all muscle and hard plains, and yet Sam can hold him and feel its softness, now that Dean has relaxed for him. It’s perfect, gorgeous, and Sam pushes his hand against it.

 

He lets his fingertips wander down to dip in and around the waistband of Dean’s shorts, which peek over his jeans, and Dean doesn’t stop him. “Can I?” Sam knows the answer, knows now that Dean wants this too, but he wants to make Dean complicit. It will be too easy to deny this otherwise, a helping hand when Dean couldn’t use his own, that his handicap lasted only three hours conveniently forgotten. Dean has a belt and Sam slips free of his mouth and belly to grasp the buckle with both hands.

 

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean breathes, and then, barely audible when it becomes clear that Sam is going to make him say it, “Yes.”

 

Sam gets Dean’s jeans and shorts right down to mid-thigh. This is exactly how he wants Dean. Between the bound hands, rucked up shirts and half-mast pants Dean is so vulnerable. So sexy, his erection bobbing, wet at the tip.

 

Dean’s cock feels a lot like his own in Sam’s hand. His balls are heavy and Sam alternates between rolling Dean’s balls, rubbing his belly and teasing his nipples. The latter makes Dean wriggle and whine, perhaps because he likes it but Sam suspects that it’s making Dean feel like a girl, making him feel even more exposed. He hopes so.

 

The scent of Dean’s arousal is heady and overpowering, familiar but a thousand times stronger than the hints Sam has had in the past. Sam vaguely remembers thinking a similar thing about his own smell when he had touched himself for the first time, before he got used to it. He really hopes that Dean is going to let him get used to this.

 

He strokes Dean’s cock like he strokes his own, the way he likes it, gliding, squeezing, not too fast, not too slow. It’s odd that he can’t feel his hand, until Dean shuffles his hips backwards, closing the gap between them. Sam ruts against his ass in a lazy rhythm, clenching the muscles at the base of his cock as he would if he was holding himself.

 

It has no right to feel this easy and comfortable but it does. Sam is deeply turned on, arousal pooled in his belly and lapping through his whole body like liquid fire. It’s as though Sam is getting them both off and this is how it should be. It’s as though Dean’s body has been missing every time Sam has jerked off in the past and only now does this feel complete and how it should have been all along.  

 

He feels Dean’s cock swell when he gets close, feels his own body keep pace, edging towards orgasm. “Come on,” he whispers into the nape of Dean’s neck, “Come with me.” An extra squeeze on Dean’s cock, an extra tug at his balls and he’s coming, making soft animal noises and thrusting into Sam’s fist, streaking all his soft exposed parts with come and taking Sam with him, shuddering and spurting inside his jeans.

 

“Sam?” Dean squirms, a few beats later, “Sticky…”

 

Sam rolls him over and licks him clean, belly, chest and cock, ignoring the squawk of surprise and jolts of over-sensitized flesh. There are just under two hours left before Dean regains the use of his hands. Sam plans to use those two hours illustrating the true meaning of _appetite_.

 

 


End file.
